Drive
by Melissa Hendrix
Summary: An exhausted Gimli feels he no longer has the strength to go on, until the power of memory gives him the drive he needs to keep going.


**Story: Drive**

**Author: Melissa Hendrix**

**Characters: Gimli, Aragorn, Legolas, Merry, and Pippin**

**Rating: K+**

**Author's Note: This story takes place shortly after the Orc attack which culminated in Boromir's death, Merry and Pippin's capture at the end of the Fellowship of the Ring, and Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli setting out to rescue them. At least in the movie, Gimli seems to be far behind his companions and extremely worn out during by tracking process. I always wondered what his drive was to keep going….and so this story was born **

Gimli felt as though his legs were ablaze with the flames of a Balrog, and the dwarf truly knew what he was talking about. _Dwarves are not built for speed, _he thought, as he watched his companions grow smaller and smaller, farther and farther away. _We can carry heavier loads alone than a whole battalion of men, but this top speed, start and stop, tracking business is definitely not for me,_ Gimli grumbled to himself. When had he last slept? At least 24 hours ago, but so much had happened in such a short time.

Boromir trying to seize the Ring, Frodo, fleeing with Sam, disappearing into the shadows of Mordor. The attack of the orcs, Boromir's fall, his confession. Merry and Pippin, taken prisoner by the Uruk-hai. Sending Boromir on his last journey down the Anduin. Then he, Legolas, and Aragorn, turning towards the orcs' trail. Tracking the seemingly tireless creatures for a day and a night, in the hopes of finding and rescuing the friends they could aid.

Gimli bent over, hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath, but failing quite miserably. He could see the Man and Elf keep going, continue to run over the wide plains, then cresting a rise. Without him. Gimli's every muscle seemed to scream, and sweat poured off the dwarf as the hot Rohirric sun beat down on him. What was the use? He needed to take two steps for each one his companions took. And the point? Orcs are savage creatures. There was only a slim chance that Merry and Pippin were still alive.

Gimli placed one hand over his eyes, trying to block it all out, but his fingers slipped on the slick skin. And he could already see the picture Boromir had painted with his dying breath. The defenseless hobbits- little more than children- dragged away, bound and gagged. At the very least they would be forced to march leagues and leagues in the rough hands of the orcs, and at the worst…Gloin's son felt tears welling in the corners of his eyes. It was all coming back to him. Gimli had hit a wall of exhaustion and no longer had the strength to run from what they had left behind.

Memories of the smallest members of their Company, both in age and stature, flooded his mind.

Merry and Pippin, imitating Gandalf, complete with tree branch staffs, cloak-beards fastened under their chins, and matching grumpy expressions. They had hidden their props when the old wizard spun around after hearing the Fellowship's badly disguised laughter.

The two smallest hobbits, teasing Sam mercilessly after hearing him say some hobbit-lass's name in his sleep. Gimli could almost still hear "Sam and Rosie sitting in a tree..."which had been repeated through at least half of Eregion, to the point that the gentle gardener would have hit them both over the head with his frying pan had Frodo not intervened.

Merry, sparring with Boromir for hours at a time, springing up after every fall, not with a grumble or a curse, but with a smile and a laugh, causing the others to wonder at the resilience and high spirits of young hobbits.

Pippin, attempting to learn how to cook, and managing to ruin lembas bread, a feat his cousin assured him was a first for Middle-Earth.

Whether through a laugh or a smile, a joke or a prank, or simply open minds and innocent hearts, Merry and Pippin had always managed to bring happiness to their Company like a breath of fresh air. A valuable trait, as the Fellowship was so often surrounded by doom and gloom, especially since Gandalf was lost in Moria. Gimli could not imagine two such bright, joyful, sparks of life being snuffed out. And that was why they were here.

The dwarf straightened up, wiped his sweating hands on his breeches, and took one last, deep, breath. Determination rekindled, he began to run again.

Half an hour later, a puffing, red-faced Gimli had caught up to his companions. Legolas, the lucky dog, was sleeping Elven style, able to rest his mind in the realms of his people while still running. Aragorn was not so far away. "You are surely not tired, Master Dwarf," the Man teased, in a tone of exaggerated surprise and indignation. "What were you doing back there?" A thousand witty replies and scathing retorts, along with a few Dwarfish curses, flitted through Gimli's head. He had noted, sourly, that the long legged Dunedan was barely out of breath. But in the end, he settled on the truth. "Remembering."

_FIN_


End file.
